


Familiar Stranger

by onceuponanobsessedfan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amnesia, Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan Have a Child, Captain Hook | Killian Jones In Love, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan Fluff, Confusion, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Lieutenant Killian Jones, Original Character(s), POV Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Parents Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan, Prince Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Princess Emma Swan, Two-Handed Captain Hook | Killian Jones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponanobsessedfan/pseuds/onceuponanobsessedfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones gets a chance to live his life as if he had never become a pirate--and instead married a certain princess from Misthaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wrong Man

**Author's Note:**

> I'm keeping this one, I promise!

Captain Killian Jones stared at the man in the black cloak and wondered if he was bluffing. The two were on their third round of Grimlet’s Grab, a dice game where gentlemen bet on whether or not the dice landed on a predicted number. So far, they were tied. Winner took all the coins on the table, which were enough to buy Killian’s whole crew on the Jolly Roger a round of drinks and then some.

The man in the black cloak, who failed to give his name, had stringy gray hair and a grimy smile. He was missing one eye and tossed the dice with bony, death-like fingers.  It was the captain’s turn to guess, and his opponent had the dice locked in a tight grip under a chipped ale mug.

Killian raised a brow and looked around at his other crewmates who were huddled close behind him. His First Mate, Smee, rubbed his chin worriedly and whispered, “I dunno, Captain. I’d cut your losses and take what you’ve earned.”

The captain took a drink of ale and said, “No one ever gained anything from being safe, Smee.” He smiled, raised a coy brow, and said to his opponent: “Ten. A six and a four, to be precise.”

The cloaked man smiled widely, baring his blackened teeth, and lifted the cup. Snake eyes.

Killian’s crew exploded into boos and vulgarities as the old man collected his winnings. The Captain, though surprised, was nothing if not a gracious loser.

“You’re cheating, you bloody prat!” Killian yelled. He slammed the hook which served as his left hand on the table.

At the mere mention of cheating, his crew stood from their benches and brandished their swords. The cloaked old man only laugh and scooped his coins into a leather purse. “Lady Luck is on my side tonight, Cap’n. You’d do best to pray to her more often.”

“The only god I pray to is the one between a woman’s legs.” Killian yanked his hook from the table, stood, and held his head up high, sneering at his opponent. He knew the look of a cheating man better than he knew his own ship, and this cod was certainly a shyster. “Hold up your arms,” Captain Hook demanded.

The old man’s confident smile flickered. His beady green eyes darted to every member of Killian’s crew, then he grinned at the captain amiably. “Certainly.”

Killian watched as the old man slowly rose up his arms. The sleeves of his cloak bunched down to his elbows, revealing a pair of frail, wiry arms. Killian was about to tell the man to shake his arms a bit, when a small clunking sound was heard on the floor. Killian bent over to look under the table, and just at the old man’s feet was a pair of extra dice. The ones he had used earlier must have been rigged.

“I knew it!” Killian called triumphantly. As he stood, he was met with a fist in his face. He stumbled backwards, nose throbbing, eyes watering, his crew members yelling and climbing over each other to grab the old man. Killian’s eyes cleared long enough so that he could see the old man fleeing the tavern quickly, pushing patrons out of his way as he went.

“Should we get ‘im, Cap’n?” A crewmember said.

“No, leave him for me!” Killian yelled. He trailed after the thief with flames on his heels, bursting out of the tavern and into the cool night. If anyone was going to stick a sharp end into this bugger, it would be Captain Hook.

Killian was just barely within sight of the old man, racing through alleys and over snoozing drunks. He smirked, happy to finally have a chase to get his blood boiling. The Jolly Roger had spent too many quiet nights at sea, and now a little vengeance would surely lift the crew’s spirits. He could see it now—the boys toasting to him on deck for getting the best of that crusty old thief, calling out Killian’s name victoriously to let any passing ship know that no one conned the likes of Captain Hook.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, old man!” Killian yelled.

The thief’s cloak billowed behind him like smoke as he ran. They came to the docks of the city, and Hook was sure he would catch the man now. The tavern may have belonged to the swindler, but the port was Killian’s turf. The man ducked into another alleyway between a tanner and a blacksmith. Killian pressed on, but stumbled when the runner pushed a stack of barrels in his way. Killian tried to jump over them but caught his foot between the containers. He tripped and fell face-down into a puddle, his nose throbbing in anguish. He was sure it was broken. When he managed to get to his feet and back to the chase, the captain had lost his target.

Killian emerged from the alley and looked to the left, then his right. He took a chance and went right, knowing that there would be plenty of businesses in the town square where the old man could hide in. When he came to the quiet, lifeless square, he saw the cloaked man bent at the waist over the stone fountain. Killian smiled and raised his hook. He thought about merely scaring the old git into giving him the money, but a lesson needed to be learned here—anyone who crosses Captain Hook gets a taste of the shiny steel on his left appendage.

The cloaked man rose slowly. Killian took a quick glance around to make sure they were alone, then he put his good hand over the man’s mouth and drove his hook right into the bastard’s back. There were muffled cries, the thief’s body twitching and struggling against Killian’s, then his knees gave out and he began to sink to the ground. The captain pulled his hook out of the man, his heart beating erratically.

“That’s the last time you steal of a captain, I’ll wager,” he said.

The cloaked figure turned over, eliciting a pained cry, and all of the blood rushed out of Killian’s face. The man he stabbed wasn’t the old thief from the tavern, but a young buck with brownish hair, a strong brow, and white teeth. His face was twisted in agony, staring up at Killian as though he were the devil himself.

“Wh . . . why did you do that?” the man cried. He coughed and blood dripped down his chin. “I wasn’t doin’ nuthin . . .”

Killian staggered backwards. He looked down next to the man and saw that he had been carrying a basket of coppers, fished from the fountain he was now bleeding to death on. He realized now that the man’s cloak wasn’t black at all, but a dark blue with silver speckles. The captain glanced around, wondering if this was a trick, if the old man from the tavern wouldn’t jump out and slit his throat as he stood here gaping at the young lad. Killian looked at his hook as it dripped blood onto the cobblestones. “I-I didn’t . . .” Words were foreign to him. “I thought—”

“I have a wife,” the young man sobbed, closing his eyes. “I have a child . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered. He backed away further, hearing the sounds of his rowdy crew members off in the distance.

“Please don’t leave me!” the man begged, holding out a hand.

Killian looked around once more as though someone or something would appear out of thin air and turn back time to make things right. But there was nothing. Just the dying young man and his cries of pain and fear.

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered again. He turned, ran back into the alley, and disappeared to the docks where his ship was safely berthed.

*          *          *

Killian spent the rest of the night in his quarters. Before retiring, he ordered his men to sail the Jolly Roger as far from that particular port as possible. Luckily, they had the moonlight to guide them.

The rise and swell of the waves rocked Killian as gently as ever, yet he lay on his bed with an arm over his face, agonizing about the man he had wrongly killed. He couldn’t get the lad’s face out of his mind—a face as young and fresh as any new cabin boy, unburdened from the true terrors of life.

He had a wife.

He had a child.

Killian raised his hook and slammed it into his bedside table. _Bloody idiot_ , he thought. _How could I make such a mistake?_

It wasn’t the first time he had killed a man, nor did he wager it would be the last. There were even a few instances where a man was chucked overboard for a petty slight he didn’t even commit—but this death felt different. Killian was actually there to see the man’s innocent eyes bulge with terror. He couldn’t stop picturing the blood on the young lad’s chin, dark and thick and sticky. The last man he had seen die so closely was—

A knock sounded at Killian’s door. He pulled his hook from the nightstand and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. “Who is it?” he bellowed.

“It’s me, Captain,” Smee replied.

Killian grunted as he stood and said, “Come in.”

Smee entered in his usual timid way. He took his hat off out of respect for the captain’s quarters and stood by the door, eyeing Killian worriedly. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked.

Killian sauntered to the table in the middle of his cabin and poured himself a drink. “I’m fine, Smee. What’s the status upstairs?”

“Storm comin’ in,” Smee said. He took a few steps closer to the captain. Killian motioned to the chair beside him and the first mate sat down. “Might be safer to turn around and head back to—”

“No!” Killian snapped. He looked at Smee and wanted to punch that sorry look off the man’s gob. “I just . . . I want to make as many waves as possible. Heard tell of a merchant ship off the coast of Misthaven.”

Smee nodded slowly. “Aye. Good call, Captain.”

Killian downed the rest of his rum in one quick gulp, then poured himself another. He sat down on a chair opposite of Smee and pushed the carafe towards his mate. Smee hesitated at first, then poured himself a thimble of rum.

“How long have we been doing this, Smee?” Killian asked, staring absently across his quarters.

“Too many years to count, Captain.” Smee drank his sip of grog, shuddered a bit, then poured himself a proper second helping. “Seems like forever.”

Killian downed the amber liquid in his cup. The blood on the man’s face. The look in his scared eyes. He couldn’t let it go. “D’you even wonder how we got here?” Killian asked.

Smee looked at the captain as though he had just asked a riddle—and the wrong answer might cost him a night in the brig. “Well . . . your brother died and—”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know _that_ , Smee. I’m saying . . . do you ever wonder why we do this? What will become of us in ten years? Twenty?”

Smee grinned and said, “You always said it was either the noose that would get you in the end or the husband of a woman you were pleasuring. There are worse ways to leave this world.”

Killian chuckled. Ever since becoming a pirate he always had romantic notions of his death—hanged at a rival port, staring down the barrel of Blackbeard’s pistol, being smothered in the tits of a vengeful woman—but what if he ended up like the man at the fountain? What if he met death with fear and sobbing? What legacy would he leave other than a ship full of miscreants and some gold here and there?

There had to be something more to life.

Killian looked into the bottom of his empty cup. “Smee, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

The first mate leaned forward and asked, “What is it, Captain?”

They were interrupted by a sudden jolt of the ship. Rain beat down in heavy sheets of the pothole. The storm had come. “Bloody hell.” Killian stood and yelled: “All hands on deck!”

The crew were already scurry around the decks like frantic mice. Gone was the moon and the stars to light their way—now there was nothing but blackness all around them, punctuated by fierce lightning and blinding rain. The ship hurled up and down, spraying water along the decks and washing the men off their feet.

Captain Hook took his place at the helm and barked orders. “Tie that mast down, you bloody idiots! Put the loot down below!” He held onto the wheel as though it were keeping him from flying off the edge of the world, and maybe it was. The wind was relentless, punching the sails like the fists of gods. The waves were higher than anything Killian has ever seen, great walls of black and blue oblivion cresting towards the ship. Each time a swell crashed down, it knocked a few men off their feet.

“Steady men!” Killian yelled over the roaring thunder. “Keep your wits about you!”

The idea was to the steer the ship facing away from the rising waves so as not to capsize, but no matter where Killian seemed to turn the wheel, the ruthless ocean followed him like a desperate lover.

“Steady!”

A wave crashed onto deck, whisking Killian away from the wheel. He slammed against the deck railing, the wind knocked completely out of him. He grasped the air for something, _anything_ to hold onto as his ship plummeted starboard. Three bells rang, signaling a man overboard. When the wave subsided, Killian stood on shaking legs and surveyed the deck. It was chaos—men running and yelling for help, trying in vain to keep the ship at bay amongst the churning waters.

“Captain!” he heard someone yell. “Captain, look ou—!”

_CRASH!_

Another wave swept Killian directly off of his feet. He went flying, hurling through the air, through time itself, it seemed, then landed in the cold water. There was no up or down, no depth or surface, just the dark water swirling him around and around. Just when he thought he would never see past the darkness again, a bright blue light flashed shone in the water, enveloping Killian as he struggled in the water. He felt an abrupt push on his back, the blue light pulling him closer, then complete darkness as something struck him over the head.

In the blackness, Killian could make out a faint voice yelling, _“Daddy! Daaaady!”_


	2. Wake-Up Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian awakens to a new life.

“Daddy, wake _up_!”

Killian was struck over the head again by something, but this time it felt much softer, like a pillow instead of a boulder. His eyes snapped open. He was dead—this was what being dead must have felt like; surrounded by creamy-white fabric, the smell of lavender and dirt and something else he couldn’t quite decipher. Was it the salt of the ocean? Yes, but only barely.

Killian blinked lazily and moved his hook hand. Only the hook was gone. In its place was his actual hand with a gold wedding band on the ring finger. He yelped and jerked to the side, falling over onto the floor with a _thud_. A giggled sounded above him. Killian tore what he realized were bedsheets away from himself, and what he saw was certainly not death.

He was in a large, ornate bedchamber fit for a castle. Stained-glass windows overlooked the water and a marble fireplace held the last dying embers of the night before. There was a vanity with crystal vials of perfumes and lotions, an intricately-carved wardrobe in the corner made from a tree, and a stunning chandelier hanging from a gilded ceiling. Killian looked up at the bed next to him and saw a small blonde girl, about five years old, smiling down at him.

Panic seized Killian. Hadn’t he just been in the ocean? Was he picked up by a rich, wayfaring ship? Did he wash ashore in a neighboring kingdom? And his hand . . . how did he—?

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Killian cried.

The little girl gasped a put a hand to her mouth. She crawled to the foot of the bed, her lace nightgown nearly drowning her form the neck down. She jumped off the bed and ran towards the door yelling, “Mummy! Papa _swore_!”

Killian sat up slowly, peeking over the edge of the bed. He looked at the left hand again and wiggled his fingers. It was real. He could feel blood pulsating in it, worn from hard work but useful nonetheless. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe this _was_ death. Maybe it was heaven. Killian stood to assess what else he might have gained or missed since his near-drowning. He was decked in a fine silk nightshirt with riffled sleeves and gold lining, far more elegant than anything he owned on the Jolly Roger. He touched his face and winced—he still had a bruised nose from his scuffle in the tavern.

The little girl flounced back into the room, a beautiful creature with soft gold tresses, a cheeky smile, and familiar baby-blue eyes. She grabbed Killian’s left hand and he nearly jumped back. He could hardly remember what it was like to have someone hold that part of him. His hand warmed to her touch.

“Daddy, can I wear my purple shoes today?” she asked him.

Killian’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Honey, you know those shoes are for the ball on Friday.”

Killian looked in the direction of the new voice and felt like he was drowning all over again. A woman entered the room in a blue dressing robe, her long blonde curls falling over her shoulders like spun gold. She had stunning green eyes, a smile as bright and mischievous as the child’s, and she walked as though she were a swan gliding on water. Killian’s heart fell to his knees and he decided that, yes, this most definitely _was_ heaven.

The little girl pouted at what Killian could only guess was her mother. “But I wanna show grampa _now_!” she whined.

The robed woman sat at her vanity and gave the child a look. “Ruthie, I said no.” She took up a brush and ran it through her curls. “Killian, get dressed,” she continued, “you know how my mom hates it when we’re late to these things.”

Killian looked behind himself, then back at the beauty. How did she know his name? Did anyone else find all of this as absurd as he did? Killian stammered, “I . . . I-I don’t—”

The child named Ruth tugged on his hand again. “Daddy, please tell me I can wear my ball shoes,” she whispered.

“Don’t you dare,” the mother warned, holding a finger up. “I swear, you spoil this child. One doe-eyed look and you’re putty in her hands.”

Killian swallowed hard. If all of this was some kind of trick, a ruse or a curse from one of his enemies, he would have to be extra careful. One wrong word could raise a red flag and his head would be on a spike. Killian looked down at the child and said, “Uh, not today. Let’s wear something else, shall we?”

As this, Ruthie pouted again, stomped her foot, and ran out of the room. Killian watched the blonde woman roll her eyes in the vanity mirror.

“How can she act so snotty in the morning, but be a perfect angel by lunchtime?”

Killian could only stare helplessly. She really was the most beautiful lass he had ever laid eyes on, and she was sitting before him in a sheer robe as though they had known each other for years. This all felt like a dream—a confusing, exotic, strangely comforting dream.

The woman noticed Killian’s distressed face and stopped brushing her hair. She looked at him in the mirror. “What’s wrong?”

Killian lowered his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. “I, uh . . . I don’t understand what’s going on,” he admitted. He looked around the room once more and emitted a flustered laugh. “I feel as if I’m going mad.”

The woman stood and approached Killian carefully. She put her hand on the sides of his face and inspected him with so much concern and tenderness, he wanted to cry. She was even more beautiful up close, smelling of lavender and with lips so soft, he wanted to brush his restored hand against them. Through the sheer dressing robe, Killian could make out her shapely body—wide hips from childbirth, a flat tummy, taut breasts that rose and fell with each breath. She touched the bruise on Killian’s nose and he winced.

“That’s the last time I left you and my dad go horseback riding,” she murmured. “You’re too competitive for your own good.” She smiled at Killian and said, “Here, this’ll help.”

Killian stiffened—in more ways than one—as the goddess pressed her petal-soft lips against his. Part of Killian wanted to pull away, wondering if she was some kind of temptress in this strange and unfamiliar land. But he leaned in to her touch, intoxicated by her sweet taste and silky lips. He was ten feet off the ground, floating gently on sunlight and palpable warmth. When they parted, a sigh escaped Killian’s mouth.

“Get dressed,” the woman whispered. “Everyone’s waiting.”

She turned away from him, wafting her delicious scent in his face. Killian blinked lazily. For a moment, he didn’t care how he got to this place or why. If he could kiss that woman again just once more, he would gladly live the rest of his days in complete confusion. That kiss was the one thing here that made any sense.

Just as the woman exited the room, a stiff young man in a butler’s garb entered. He stood in the doorway and said, “Good morning, sir.”

Killian eyed the pasty, prissy man and raised a brow. “‘Morning.”

The butler took another step inside. “Shall I help you dress this morning, sir?”

“Why the bloody hell would you do _that_?” Killian cried.

The butler blinked once. “It’s . . . my job, Your Highness.”

Killian’s eyes widened. “What the devil did you call me?”

The butler turned to the wardrobe with a cool, unfazed glare. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, pulling a fine crimson outfit from the wardrobe. “I know how you hate being referred to as royalty, but the princess _did_ insist—”

“Princess?” Killian asked. “Listen, Jeeves—”

“Holdrick, Your Highness.”

“Whatever.” Killian squirmed as the butler held the crimson garment up to him. “I think you’re in the wrong room. I’m not—” He jerked back as Holdrick began unlacing the front of Killian’s night shirt. “Oi! Sod off, mate!” He pushed the butler away and the young servant stumbled backwards. Killian knew he had been too rough, but his fear and bewilderment blocked whatever propriety he had. He looked past Holdrick and noticed little Ruthie standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and fretful.

The butler straightened, set the outfit on the chair by the vanity, and brushed the front of his shirt. “I shall return at a more convenient time for you, sir.” He bowed, turned on his heel, and left the room.

Killian rubbed his hands together, Ruthie’s impossibly large eyes heaping more guilt upon him. He tried to explain himself, but it came out as, “I, uh . . . um, listen—”

“You’re not my daddy,” Ruthie whispered.

Killian stopped. He stared at the child with ice in his veins. Was the dream ending? The curse breaking? Could she finally see him for what he really was—a pirate with a scary hook and dastardly morals? Regardless, Killian knew he needed to keep things calm. If the child caused a panic, people would be asking questions. They would know he was clueless about everything and they would accuse him of fraud, or worse . . . dark magic.

Killian raised a hand and stepped forward cautiously. “Just wait, love. I can explain.”

Ruth shook her head, eyes bulging with tears. It nearly broke Killian’s heart if he hadn’t been so terrified that she would scream. “You’re not my daddy,” Ruthie whispered again. “You’re different.”

“I know, just listen—”

“ ** _MUMMYYYY_**!”

Killian threw his hand over the child’s mouth, shut the door, and carried her to the other end of the room.

“Stop!” he cried. “It’s all right, calm down!”

Ruthie kicked and cried as Killian set her on a table that held a washbasin and cold leftover porridge. Her tears stained his hand. He tentatively let her go and she sobbed, “You’re not my daddy! You’re different! I want my _daddy_!”

“Shh, darling, shh . . .” Killian took the cloth from the washbasin and gently wiped the child’ face. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. “I’m sorry, love. But I need you to calm down. I need you to be a brave girl, can you do that for me?”

Ruthie sniffled, then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” Killian sighed. “Okay, okay.” He looked around the room, struggling to figure out how to explain the situation. He touched his battered nose and had an idea. “Listen to me, darling. I know I seem different right now, but you need to help me. Daddy hit his head, see?” Killian pointed to his nose. “And I need some help remembering a few things. Can you help me, love?”

Ruth nodded again, her tears subsiding.

“Okay, Can you tell me where we are?”

“At our castle,” Ruthie replied, rubbing her eyes. “The summer palace.”

“Palace . . .” Killian repeated. “Who is the princess?”

Ruthie grinned. “Me! And Mummy.” She pointed to Killian’s chest. “And you’re the prince. Mummy’s prince.”

Killian’s legs shook. He needed to sit down. He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, putting his head between his knees. “Prince . . .” The word only crossed his lips when he was cursing the king on his ship. And now he _was_ one? He looked at Ruthie. “So your mother . . . is my wife?”

The child nodded.

This was less of a shock to Killian and more of a pleasant bonus. That gorgeous woman was his to hold at night, to kiss and touch and stroke and love, all his own.

Killian looked at Ruth and whispered, “Are you really my daughter?”

She nodded. “Are you really my papa?”

Killian swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, his hands shaking. “I guess I am, love.”

Ruthie smiled and wrapped her small hands around his neck. She kissed the owie on his nose. “Don’t worry, Daddy. We’ll make you all better.”


	3. The Queen's Round Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping up appearances is harder for Killian than he thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooo sorry this took me so long to update! I just started a new job and training has been a nightmare. But I think I'm over the worst of it, so I'll be able to provide you with more chapters on a consistent basis. Thank you SO MUCH to all of you who have stuck around and commented. I love you all!

Killian managed to squeeze as much information as possible from Ru—his _daughter_. From what he learned, he and the princess Emma were married royalty from Misthaven. The queen was Snow White and her king was Charming (literally, from the way Ruthie gushed about him). They were all happy, it seemed—fair rulers who helped the poor, healed the sick, and repaid kindness with kindness. It was a far cry from most royalty Killian fought and cursed during his journeys on the Roger.

Killian sent Ruth to get dressed and put on the garment Holdrick had picked out for him. Despite being a little stiff with too many layers, it was the most luxurious thing he had ever put on. He glanced in the mirror and decided that he was still devilishly handsome. He wondered if Emma would notice.

The captain (or, ex-captain in this land) stuck his head outside the chamber door and looked around. The halls were wide and deep with alabaster pillars, oil paintings hanging on the walls of past and present royalty. Killian gasped as he looked at the painting next to his bedchamber door. A wall-to-ceiling portrait of his and Emma’s wedding stared back at him. The princess was stunning, of course, in a white gown with feather sleeves and rhinestones along her brows. But Killian was most surprised at his own likeness. The lad in the painting was younger, clean-shaven, his eyes alight with happiness. Killian felt he was staring at a stranger—someone more innocent and joyful, completely unaffected by true hardship. It was the same look he saw briefly flicker in the young man’s eyes he had accidentally killed.

But that was ages ago now. Or perhaps it had never happened?

Killian’s thoughts were interrupted by a creature grabbing his leg. He looked down and Ruthie smiled up at him, wearing a pretty yellow dress and ribbons in her hair.

“C’mon, let’s go!” she urged, taking his hand and pulling him down the hall. “Mummy can fix your owie—”

Killian stopped his daugh— _Ruthie_ —just as they were about to descend the grand staircase. “You can’t tell your mum, darling,” he said.

Ruth crinkled her eyebrows, the same crinkle Killian often saw on his own face. “Why?” she asked.

Killian sighed and knelt to her height. “I don’t want Mummy to worry,” he explained. “If you tell her that I don’t remember anything, she might send me away.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “Away?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Killian said.

It wasn’t really a lie; more of a half-truth. He didn’t know how the royals would handle his “condition,” so for all he knew, it was a very real possibility that the kind and queen would banish him for being utterly mad. Still, he had to make sure the child was frightened enough not to blow his cover. It was harsh, but a little emotional trauma to a five-year-old was better than her daddy having no head.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he urged the girl. “Not your grandfather, not your grandmother, not even a doctor. Do you understand?”

Ruth stuck her quivering lip out. Tears welled in her eye and she wrung her hands nervously. “I don’t want you to go away,” she whispered.

Killian’s heart crashed into his ribcage. Seeing her upset was worse than the dirtiest brig, worse than being tortured and shot and stabbed by rival flags. He would have rather been back at the bottom of the ocean that see Ru—his _daughter_ —cry.

“Everything’s going to be fine, love,” he assured her, “as long as you don’t tell Daddy’s secret. Understand?”

Ruthie blinked away her tears and put her hand over Killian’s heart. “Sailor’s honor,” she said.

A small, delighted grin played on his face. “Where did you learn that?”

“From you,” Ruthie replied.

Killian’s mouth exploded into a teeth-baring grin. A thought briefly flashed behind his eyes, one that both scared and thrilled him: he could probably love this little girl.

*          *          *

They were the last to arrive to the Queen’s Round Table. All heads turned and looked at Killian and Ruthie. Emma was closest to the door, having changed into a stunning blue gown with a fur collar. At first her look was one of disapproval, but when she saw her daughter, her face melted.

“Come here, monkey,” she said, smiling.

Ruthie ran into her mother’s lap and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Killian sat tentatively in the chair next to his wife, the queen’s eyes following him closely.

“You’re late, Jones,” the king said.

Killian looked at the man nicknamed ‘Charming.’ He was a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair, a fine set of armor, and a bejeweled golden crown. Despite a few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, he was a handsome fellow with kind eyes.

Killian stood and bowed out of respect. “My apologies, Your Highness. I was . . . playing with Ruth.”

Dead silence followed. Killian’s heart raced. Did he misspoke? Was he too forward? He knew he should have bowed before sitting next to Emma, but she looked so beautiful and smelled so nice, he couldn’t help but—

Laughter erupted around the table.

“Sit down, Jones. I’m just teasing,” the king said.

Killian reclaimed his seat and forced a smile.

“He’s still sore about losing the horse race,” Charming whispered to his wife.

Snow White rolled her eyes. She was as lovely as her daughter, with jet-black hair and fair skin streaked with wrinkles as thin as butterfly wings. She wore a powerful red dress with a high collar and a diamond tiara. She smiled at Killian. “Ruth is a daddy’s-girl,” she said, nodding at her granddaughter. “Emma was the same way.”

“ _Was_?” Charming said. “She’s still my little girl.”

Killian looked at his wife and she was blushing adorably. “Can we get on with the meeting, please?” Emma implored.

“Yes,” Snow said. She switched her face over to business mode. “We all know that the Pashtoor kingdom needs more wheat for the winter, but they haven’t paid us back yet for the livestock from last spring . . .”

Killian’s eyes glossed over. He hated political talk of any kind. It was always who owed what to whom and how much many they could spare so as not to start a war. He liked the politics of the sea better—everything was democratic down to the last doubloon, and if a mate couldn’t pay back his debt, he was marooned on the closest shore with a pistol and a single bullet. No fuss, no muss.

“Couldn’t we just barter for their lumber?” Emma asked. “It’s better than putting them in more debt.”

Charming shook his head. “We don’t need their lumber,” he argued. “The only value they have is their gold, and the well is running dry.”

Killian stifled a yawn. If he knew the meeting was going to be this boring, he would have brought a book. He looked around the table. There were seven little men, dwarves, who nodded intently and murmured to each other whenever the queen spoke. An old woman with spectacles was knitting a pink blanket, and a ravishing brunette in a red cloak was . . . well, she was staring at Killian. He raised a brow at her and she looked away with a curious scowl. Was he meant to speak up? Did this woman know he was acting strangely?

Killian cleared his throat and said, “Why not send some mercenaries to Pashtoor?”

The Round Table fell silent. Everyone looked at him.

Killian tugged on the collar of his shirt. “I mean . . . what I mean is, the kingdom may respond better to a little force. Nothing too harsh. I’m not talking about a massacre, just—”

“That’s not how we do things in our kingdom,” the queen said sternly. She looked at Killian with hard-set eyes, her mouth turned down in a frown. The seven little men shook their heads disapprovingly.

Killian tugged at his collar again. Emma turned her head to him, her brows crinkled in confusion. The woman in the red cloak narrowed her eyes at Killian. She looked like a wolf stalking its prey. He realized some serious damage-control was needed, then barked out a laugh.

“I’m kidding, of course!” He looked around the table desperately. “We would never send troops just for a few hundred—”

“Thousand,” Charming corrected.

“Thousand gold pieces.” _Bloody hell!_  Killian thought. _You’re letting these beggars get away with thousands of gold in debt?_ Killian swallowed and tried again. “We could collect on the interest, instead. For every month they don’t pay us back for the livestock, we collect a percentage of what they _would_ owe.”

“What about the wheat?” Emma asked.

“That we could barter with,” Killian explained. “We could give them just enough wheat for the winter and they could trade us for the calves of the livestock we gave them.”

The table was silent. A slow smiled curled Emma’s lips. Finally, the queen spoke: “That’s not a bad idea.”

Charming nodded in agreement. “We’ll have to tweak a few things, but that may work.” He smiled at Killian. “Good work, Jones.”

Killian grinned. He let out a breath for the first time in what felt like an hour. He wasn’t sure where this sudden prowess of politics came from. Maybe the Killian of this land—the one in the portrait by his bedchambers—had a knack for this type of thing. Maybe this little charade wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

*          *          *

When the meeting ended, Killian chatted with the king outside of the chamber. He was a very pleasant man, a far cry from many snotty, conniving royals Killian came across on the Jolly Roger. Perhaps he had misjudged all of royalty.

“I have to say,” the king murmured, “you had us all a little worried yesterday.”

Killian raised a sincere brow. “Did I?”

Charming put a hand to his hip near the hilt of his sword. He glanced behind him as Emma and Ruth chatted. “After the horse race. When you fell off and hit your head . . . we were all quite worried about you.”

Killian’s face softened. Worried about him? The last time anyone worried about his well-being was when Liam was alive. The men of the Jolly Roger respected him, of course, but concern was for women and men who had never seen the harshness of the sea. He was unsure how to feel about these strangers caring so deeply about him. His gut told him that it was something to be grateful for.

“Thank you,” Killian said. He nodded solemnly. “I admit, I don’t feel quite myself lately, but—”

Killian looked past the king’s shoulder and saw the red-cloaked woman scowling at him in the meeting room. He excused himself and slipped back inside, giving Ruthie a wink along the way.

The brunette woman crossed her arms and whispered to Killian, “May we talk in private . . . _Your Highness_?”

Killian’s eyes narrowed. The lass said the last part with an edge, as though the words were poison. He nodded and began leading the woman by the elbow to the next room.

“Killian?” Emma called.

He stopped and turned in the doorway.

“Don’t take too long,” his wife said. “We need to leave for the docks in half an hour.”

Killian nodded amiably at his wife. “Yes, love. I’ll only be a minute.” He turned and the red-cloaked woman was already in the next room, a solarium of sorts with tall windows and beige couches.

Killian closed the door behind him quietly. The red-cloaked woman crossed her arms and stared at her prince with a look that meant death. Killian waited for her to speak. He opened his arms and said, “Well?”

The woman shook her head. “You may have everyone else fooled, but you’re not fooling me.”

Killian crossed his own arms defiantly. Behind his posture of confidence, he was almost literally shaking in his boots. Did this woman truly know something was wrong? Had she always known something was off about him, even the Killian who was represented in that painting with Emma? Or was all of this a terrible misunderstanding? He decided to play it cool by smiling and asking, “What are you going on about?”

“You’re different,” the woman said. “Everyone else thinks it’s just your head injury, but I know there’s something more. You smell different.”

Killian relaxed a little. Clearly, this woman was off her rocker. Perhaps the queen let this poor simple creature be at the Round Table out of pity? “ _Smell_?” Killian asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, love.”

The woman pointed at him. “See, that! You never call anyone else ‘love’ except for Emma. She broke you of that habit years ago.”

Killian shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”

“Not yours. If Emma says ‘jump,’ you fling yourself off the nearest cliff.”

Killian chuckled. Maybe there was something to this woman’s ramblings. But he had faced worse interrogations than this in the past. This red-cloaked woman was far too emotionally-invested for anyone else to take her seriously. If she had played it cooler, Killian might have been worried.

“Listen,” he conceded. “I do apologize if I’ve offended you in any way. I give you my word that I am who I say I am, madam.”

At the word ‘madam,” the woman’s mouth hung open. The she smiled. And Killian’s confidence was shattered.

“What’s my name?” the woman asked.

 _Bullocks, bullock, bullocks!_ Killian thought. It was over now. His naïveté might have fooled Ruthie, but this woman would kill for the truth.

To save face, Killian laughed and shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Just tell me my name. And I’ll forget everything.”

Killian swallowed the rock growing in his throat. He didn’t dare guess an answer. Anything, no matter how close to the truth, wouldn’t be enough for this woman. Killian tried another card.

“I don’t like how you’re speaking to me. I’m your prince and your ruler and you—”

The woman huffed out a laugh. “You may be those things on paper, but I know my own instincts. And they’re telling me that you’re a liar.”

Killian took a step forward with every intention of grabbing the woman’s throat and scaring her into silence, but he reined himself back in. Those weren’t the actions of Misthaven’s Killian. Those weren’t the actions of an innocent prince. He clenched his fists and gave the woman his most fearsome pirate glare.

“I’m warning you,” he growled, “don’t cross me.”

The woman smiled again. “I won’t have to,” she said. “Because sooner or later, you’re going to slip up. And when you do, I’ll be right there—and I’ll have no problem throwing you in the dungeon to rot.”

Before Killian could respond, the woman hurried past him, opened the door to the meeting room, and left the solarium. Killian turned and watched her weave through the room and back out to the corridors. Luckily, she didn’t seem intent of exposing him just yet. At least not until she had some evidence.

Emma was still in the room with Ruthie in her arms. She, too, had watched the red-cloaked woman leave in a huff, and gave Killian a bewildered stare. “What was all that about?”

Killian buried anxiety deep within himself. He unclenched his fists, took a deep breath, and said, “Nothing, love. She was just making sure I was alright since the accident yesterday.”

Emma didn’t look thoroughly convinced, but she nodded regardless. “All right. Are you ready to go?”

Killian forced a smile and nodded. “How ‘bout you, darling?” he asked Ruthie, taking her from Emma’s arms and into his own. “Ready for a trip to the docks?”

“Yes!” Ruthie yelled, smiling brightly.

Killian chuckled and placed his hand on Emma’s lower back to help escort her out of the room. As they walked down the corridor to the grand staircase, he could feel a pair of eyes—wolf-like in their guile—watching him, waiting patiently for him to make a mistake.  


	4. To the Naval Shipyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian finally figures out how and why he was sent to this strange place.

Killian was noticeably quiet on the carriage ride through the forest. A full consort followed them through the kingdom towards the naval docks, including the king and queen’s carriage ahead of them. Killian gazed out the window of the plush carriage, hypnotized by the tree whizzing past.

Was that red-cloaked woman truly an enemy? Or was she an ally who saw past Killian’s façade? Her intentions were noble, if not brash, and there as something to be said for the way she spoke to him—as if they were perhaps friends instead of mere acquaintances. Killian thought about asking Ruthie, but Emma was too close by.

The child sat across from Killian and Emma, playing with a ruddy-cheeked doll she affectionately named “Enid.” Ruthie caught Killian staring at her and gave him a winning smile. Killian grinned back, hopelessly falling even more in love. It was amazing how just a smile from this girl could brighten his spirits.

Emma placed her hand over Killian’s. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

He broke his trance with Ruth and looked over at his wife. “Hm?”

“I hope Red wasn’t giving you a hard time,” Emma continued. “She gets testy around the new moon, and I know she’s been gunning for that wolf sanctuary in Briarwood—”

“No,” Killian assured her. “Not at all.”

 _Red_. Was that the woman’s name? If he dared to call out to her with it, would she respond with suspicion or shrink away in defeat? It was a start, anyway—better than standing and stammering like a fool. He would have to remember to ask Ruthie more about Red later on.

Killian looked at his wife. There was concern in her eyes, as deep and sincere as her own father’s. Only this look was mixed with something else: love. She gazed at him as if he truly held the sunlight in the dimples of his cheeks. Emma’s mouth widened into a brilliant teeth-baring grin as Killian gazed at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Killian smiled. “I’m just . . .” He laughed softly. For the first time in his adult life, he couldn’t find an adequate word for a beautiful woman. They were often sexy, leggy, kinky, sultry, all of those fine qualities that made up a lass he could slip on and off like a three-cornered hat. But Princess Emma—his _wife_ —she defied such crude terms. She was noble and warm, with a strength that radiated wherever she went. This was possibly the first time in Killian’s life that physical beauty was only an iota of what he found attractive about a woman.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

Killian was jerked forward slightly by the carriage halting. He snapped his head towards the window and saw that the tress were still. He looked at Emma and asked, “What’s happen—?”

But Emma was motionless. Her face was stuck in the same pleasantly surprised look as before, only now she didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t even twitch as Killian moved his hand away from hers. He looked at Ruthie, and the doll she was playing with was suspended in air from when she had thrown her slightly. Ruth, herself, had her hands up, ready to catch Enid, but she was as frozen as her mother.

“Ruth?” Killian reached out and touched the child’s face. It was still warm, still pulsating with life, though her body was as immobile as the carriage around him. Killian checked Emma quickly. Thankfully, she was alive.

Killian exited the carriage, looking around frantically. Either he was hallucinating, or a terrible curse had befallen them. All of the carriages had stopped mid-gallop, but the trees surrounding them in the forest still swayed to the wind.

“Hello?” Killian called. He wasn’t sure who was supposed to respond. Even if it were a curse cast by an evil witch, at least he could face the demon head-on, rather than blindly looking around. “Is someone—”

“I hear you,” a soft voice called.

Killian whipped around to the voice. It came from a speck of blue light traveling ever-closer in midair. He thought perhaps it was an insect or even just a ray of odd light filtering from the trees—surely that voice wasn’t coming from something so small. But the light grew, then shrank, and in its place was a dark-haired fairy with a curious dress and a sparkling wand. She hovered on blue wings. Killian wished he could say this was the oddest thing he had encountered in the last six hours, but alas it wasn’t uncommon to see a fairy or two in his time as captain.

“Who are you?” Killian asked. “What’s happened?”

“We needed to speak,” the fairy said. Her head was tilted slightly, a soft smile on her face. “You’re getting along better than I expected,” she chuckled.

“What do you mean?” Killian looked over his shoulder at the carriage. “What’ve you done to—”

“We don’t have much time,” the fairy said. “I know you have many questions.”

“Indeed,” Killian grumbled, raising a brow. “Shall I make you a list?”

“I brought you here,” the fairy said. “This is a glimpse of what your life could have been like had you chosen not to be a pirate.”

Killian squinted at the fairy. So it _was_ a curse. Or a blessing. “You did this?” he asked. “Why?”

The fairy pursed her lips. “Because you asked.”

Killian took a step back as though he had been hit. He most certainly did _not_ ask to be thrust in a strange world with people he couldn’t remember. He retraced his steps before landing in Misthaven—the fall into the ocean, the raging storm that pummeled his ship, the conversation with Smee below deck . . .

 _“Do you ever wonder why we do this?”_ he had mused. _“What will become of us in ten years?”_

The fairy nodded as if reading Killian’s thoughts and said, “You wanted to know what your life would be like if you weren’t a pirate. I heard your wish.”

Killian’s face hardened and he looked at the ground. “I never wished for—”

“You’re unhappy with your life,” the fairy said gently. “And it’s my job to make dreams come true.”

“But . . .” Killian looked back once more at the carriage that held his wife and child. “Why don’t I remember anything?”

“Because it hasn’t happened yet,” the blue fairy explained. “I’m giving you a chance to make things right.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why now, in this place? Why does it have to happen like _this_?”

“Killian,” the fairy said softly. “This is what always had to happen.”

Killian closed his gaping mouth. He tried to wrap his brain around her ominous words, but he came up short of a true explanation. It was like a riddle where he only had certain words to work from, a potion with a missing ingredient. It infuriated him and left him with more questions than before.

“You better get back in,” the fairy said, motioning to the carriage. “The enchantment is almost over.”

The fairy started to float away, but Killian reached out a desperate hand. “Wait! I still have so many questions!”

And then she was gone in a flash of blue light.

Killian took a few breaths, bowled over by the creature’s information, then dashed back into the carriage in the nick of time. Thankfully, their ride moved once more. Ruthie caught Enid and gave the doll a hug. Emma blinked and looked down at her empty hand. When she looked back at her husband, he was panting.

“Why are you sweating?” she asked.

*          *          *

The docks were only a few more minutes away. The forest gave way to a busting city with cobblestone streets, banners of the king and queen’s flag, and healthy, smiling residents. A crowd of waving spectators gathered as the carriages rode past. People cheered and jumped for joy, and as Killian peered out the small window, he could hardly believe these people were applauding for him. Emma smiled and waved at the crowd from the window on her side. Ruthie practically had her nose pressed to the glass, giggling at their subjects and blowing them kisses.

Killian had never been more uncomfortable in his life. His crew on the Jolly Roger gave excellent fanfare, but he often wondered if they did it out of fear more than loyalty. These peasants, however, were not feigning loyalty, and the fact that Killian has somehow become (or had the possibility to become) someone they could love and respect was daunting. He raised a hesitant hand, mustered a small grin, and waved with his fingers.

The carriages were parked not far from the berthed ships at port. Dozens upon dozens of armed guards kept the crowd at bay as the royal family met at a dock which ported a large naval ship bearing Misthaven’s colors.

Killian nearly melted when Emma wrapped her arm around his waist and drew him close. He gave her shoulder a squeeze, desperate to kiss her head, but caught the king’s critical eye and reconsidered. He breathed in her earthy scent instead, his head spinning.

“So,” Killian said to his wife, “what’re we doing? Christening a ship? Kissing babies?”

A walking plank was lowered from the deck of the ship onto the dock. A stiff line of naval officers marched down the plank to the dock, swords at their sides and uniforms crisp and white. Killian had a flashback to his own naval days—the bicorn hats, the gold collars, the shiny buttons and tight boots. There were times when he missed the unflinching structure and pride of the fleet, but then he remembered that it was the navy that killed his brother, and all warm memories turned ice-cold.

Ruthie pointed up to the deck of the ship and cried. “They’re here!”

Killian smiled at her enthusiasm.

“Salute for the captain!” the first mate yelled. All of the naval officers in line at the dock straightened and raised a hand to their foreheads.

Killian looked up at the ship’s deck to see the captain descending. His heart stopped cold in his chest. He sucked in a small, anguished cry, and his face became as still as when the carriages were under the enchantment.

His brother Liam walked down the plank arm-in-arm with a very pretty, very pregnant woman by his side. Liam smiled instantly at Killian and waved. “There’s my brother!” he called.


End file.
